


The Safir Sadness Marathon, Vol. 3

by PoboboProbably



Series: The Safir Sadness Marathon [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Eluvians, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Other, Sadness, more sadness, probably the highest concentration of sadness of the SSM so far tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 23:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17435111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoboboProbably/pseuds/PoboboProbably
Summary: Safir Tabris has a hard life. Now, through a series of variable-length vignettes, you can suffer through it alongside her as she makes the worst possible decisions in the wake of her misery and inevitably worsens every negative emotion she feels in her deep pit of despair.The third and final volume of a tearjerking trilogy designed to detail every miserable moment of Safir's existence, this series lazily skips from somewhere in the middle of Awakening right to the end of Witch Hunt and shows you just how poorly this Warden can deal with her emotions. Things have to get much worse before they'll ever get any better.





	1. I Found Morrigan and All I Got Was this Crushing Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our restless hero has abandoned her friends in Vigil's Keep and gone in search of a Witch of the Wilds. Disaster awaits.

Safir ignored the footsteps and voices of her company as they echoed behind her own. They did not matter. Not now, not anymore. In the distance, finally within reach, stood Morrigan. The enormous mirror at her side glowed faintly, painting her skin with a slight purple tint. She turned on her heel as Safir approached her.

“No further, please. One more step and I leave. For good, this time.” Morrigan’s words were final, but they were betrayed by the lingering sadness in her eyes. Or maybe that was just Safir’s imagination. After all this time without her friend, without her sister… she had no idea what to say.

“Hello to you too, Morrigan.” The witch’s eyebrow flared up in response.

“I assume you know what this is. I have gone to great lengths to find and activate this portal,” she said, hesitating on her next line. “Give me a reason and I use it, and you will not be able to follow.”

The warning seemed hollow enough. Safir took a cautious step forward.

“Then why haven’t you left yet, if that’s true?”

“I remained to see if it was truly you. I had to know. Truth be told, I waited this long because I was curious.” Morrigan entangled her fingers while she considered Safir. “Tell me: why did you come?”

Why, indeed? What did Safir expect to find here, after so much time apart and so much time alone? She knew what she wanted. What she hoped for. But she also knew better than to expect it.

“We were friends once, Morrigan. Sisters.”

“Indeed, we were. But as I recall, ‘twas not I who changed that.”

Safir clenched her jaw and averted her eyes. As if she didn’t know that already. “Why did you leave me?”

“I offered you a deal, and you threw it in my face! Do not speak to me of betrayal,” she snapped, her features hard but her eyes soft. She still cared.

“I _needed_ you, Morrigan.”

“And I, you. You did not seem interested in me then, so why now?”

“No!” Safir shouted, allowing her emotions to get the better of her. “You lied to me! All along! What was I supposed to think?”

“That I was aiding you, perhaps? That I was offering you a solution?” Morrigan paused a moment, her face falling. “But ‘tis true. I did deceive you. I did not think the battle with the Archdemon would come so soon. And so I came to you. I needed you, yes, but I also did not wish to see you die. And here you stand, alive, despite your refusal.”

“And despite my insistence,” Safir added.

“What? You mean to say…”

“Alistair killed the Archdemon before I… before I could save him.”

“I… oh. I’d assumed the two of you had made an agreement.”

Safir shook her head by way of response.

“Then I am sorry, Safir. Truly. But we cannot change what is past.”

“No, we can’t.”

“So allow me to provide you instead with a warning, for the future. ‘Tis not I you should be wary of, but Flemeth.”

“Morrigan, I didn’t come here to talk about your mother,” Safir countered.

“No, indeed. But talk we must,” she continued, waving away Safir’s reluctance. “I thought I knew what Flemeth planned. I thought what she craved was immortality. And yet I was wrong. So very wrong. She is no blood mage, no abomination... She is not even truly human.”

“And?”

“The ritual. It would only have been a means to an end. A herald of what is to come.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Change is coming to the world,” Morrigan explained. “Many fear change and will fight it with every fiber of their being. But sometimes change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free.”

“That’s hardly an answer,” Safir said.

“It is all I have to give.”

Morrigan turned her gaze down, looking sadly at the ground. She lingered here for some reason, but Safir could not guess what it was. And she was beyond hoping for a happy reunion.

“But must it be?” she asked.

“Indeed, I am afraid so,” Morrigan answered. “I cannot tarry longer. The time has come for me to go.”

Morrigan turned to face the eluvian again, approaching it with tentative steps. Safir followed. When they reached the mirror, the witch paused once more and took a deep breath, seemingly waiting for Safir to say something. Silence then prompted her to speak her own peace.

“There is one final thing I must tell you, if you will allow me. I’ve left you a gift,” she began, pointing to a spot lower down on the hill. “The Dalish book is there, and something you will find of great interest.”

Safir turned to look, noting the book and the burlap sack next to which it sat.

“Now… will you let me go?” Morrigan asked her, not waiting for her to turn back around. The grimness in her voice had shifted to concern. She was finally speaking to her sister once again. Safir met her gaze, responding to the warmth of Morrigan’s eyes with the sadness of her own.

“Just… say goodbye, this time.”

Rather than speak, Morrigan simply offered her a bittersweet smile before turning again towards the mirror. That was it, then?

No. It couldn’t be. She wouldn’t allow it. Before Morrigan could reach the eluvian, Safir reached out and grabbed her by the crook of the elbow. Hanging on with only one hand, she waited for her sister to react.

“Morrigan… _please_ ,” she begged.

After a pause, Morrigan turned around just enough to look at her face to face, cupping her free hand over Safir’s with a light squeeze.

Safir wasn’t quite sure what she was asking, if she was asking anything at all. She simply stared into Morrigan’s eyes, feeling the sorrow on her own and praying for the moment to last.

“I am sorry, Safir. For everything.”

In another moment, she was gone, and the eluvian’s glow dimmed to nothing. Safir collapsed onto her knees and pressed her open palm against the cool glass, once again mourning a familiar loss.


	2. The Value of Proper Grief Counseling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero revels in the loss of her last hope of having a less shitty life and actively decides to be as miserable as possible instead.

Stepping slowly back down the hill, Safir kept her eyes on the spot where Morrigan had pointed. The Dalish book, slightly tattered, sat on the ground next to a rather large burlap sack. Somewhere to her right,   
Arianne and Finn still stood silently, watching her. Judging her, no doubt.

Not that it mattered. Without opening it to check on the contents, Safir lifted the sack up by the knot and, shouldering it, left the book where it lay.

She heard the sound of Arianne’s voice as she passed her, but did not hear the words. Instead she beat on, looking only at the trail ahead as she made for the cavern’s exit. She didn’t look back when she reached the door and stepped back out into the Wastes, where the varterral lay still twitching.

Looking up, she saw the moon, a faintly twinkling crescent in the sky. Perhaps somewhere far away in a forgotten piece of land, Morrigan looked up and saw the same moon. Perhaps she was even thinking of Safir.

She sighed a deep sigh, letting the cool stench of dead air fill her lungs, and left the moon to its hanging. Onward, then.

Before she’d even willed herself to take that first step out of the clearing, the door creaked open behind her and out stepped Arianne and Finn.

“Well, the book is no worse for wear,” Arianne explained. Safir didn’t look at her. “Morrigan may have been a thief, but at least she takes care of her belongings. Did you… get what you were looking for?”

“No,” she answered. “I got what I expected.”

“What’s that?” Arianne pressed, her tone still cautious.

“Nothing,” Safir finished, finally starting on the path that led out of the Wastes.

“Do you reckon the Circle’s ever been here?” Finn asked after a while on the path. “There’s so much we could stand to learn here!”

“Yes, like how to get eaten by varterrals,” Arianne chided, earning herself a derisive scoff.

“I _meant_ from all the dragon remains. It’s not often we get to study so many samples…”

Increasing her pace, Safir allowed the chatter behind her to dissolve into meaningless noise. She wondered whether Arianne and Finn suspected how little she cared for them. Even after months on the road, she’d done little enough to be a friend to them. They were tools, nothing more.

Friends were dangerous things to have, anyway. Morrigan’s fresh disappearance had taught her that lesson. Not for the first time, but with any luck, for the last. She thought again of the Blight. Of her friends. Alistair dead. Morrigan gone. Sten serving the Qun. Zevran, Shale, Oghren…

What good were friendships, if all they amounted to was sadness and longing? What good were friendships, if all you could do was sour and end them? She should have known better. From the moment she’d been recruited, she should have known better. She thought she’d learned, after Alistair. Vigil’s Keep would be different, she’d promised herself. No friendship, no attachment, no inevitable misery. There was Oghren, at least. If she had to feel anything, better it be for him. Better it be _only_ for him. Less complication that way. Less liability.

But she’d failed. Velanna, Justice, Sigrun, Anders… they were easy enough to ignore. Wade and Herren, the insane dwarves, they made for good entertainment and nothing else. But Nathaniel…

She’d been stupid. She’d been stupid, foolhardy, and reckless by allowing herself to care about him. Even by approaching him for sex, she made herself the fool. As if she deserved even the basest carnal pleasure that laying with him would have given her. As if she deserved to move on and forget.

No, that was the second lesson Morrigan’s departure had taught her. Freedom from pain was best left reserved for those whose pain was not of their own making. She should have known better than to go to Morrigan and hope for comfort. The blood of this new wound would serve as a fitting punishment. A reminder to herself of the cost of stupidity.

Again she looked up at the moon and thought of her sister. Again she wondered if somewhere far off, Morrigan was looking up at the same moon, thinking of her. She hoped not. She wasn’t worth the attention, and much less the concern. Wherever she was, hopefully Morrigan’s last thoughts of Safir would come sooner rather than later.

It was only fair.


	3. Abandonment Issue No. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like many a depressed teenager, our hero knows that the best way to deal with sorrow and grief is to resent and distance yourself from those who surround you. Here, she gains much practice in the former.

Two days out from the Wastes and Safir’s thoughts still lingered on Morrigan whenever they managed a break from her aching feet. But now a sort of acceptance had cloaked them. Where before there was aimless sadness, now there was purpose. Direction. She’d given thought to her next move.

Having looked into Morrigan’s gift the prior night, she quickly realized what the assembled contents of the sack meant. A vial of blood, a few alchemical tools, and a collection of cryptic notes in multiple languages. She knew what they were for. A way to reverse the Joining, to spare herself the calling. An interesting gift, no doubt, but one that would remain unused. Even if she had the means to travel unbidden and unaided through Tevinter, Safir lacked all desire to.

No, far more concerning was her own plan. The Brecilian Forest was not far, now. Only about two weeks of walking, if she kept up a quick pace. Abandon Finn and Ariane, and she’d be faster still. Finding cheap labor would be easy enough, once she sold a few things. She supposed with the Vigil’s coffers anything was possible, but it was better to remain unnoticed. Earning a few sovereigns on the road was easy enough if she kept her wits about her.

“Hello?” Ariane’s voice impatiently called. “Safir?”

Turning around quickly, Safir asked her what was the matter.

“Creators, I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last minute! Where is your head?”

Safir only blinked.

“Well, as I’ve been trying to tell you, we don’t exactly know wh—“

“We’re lost,” Finn interrupted. “Hopelessly, irreconcilably lost, and we’re going to die. Just thought you should know, is all.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Ariane continued, annoyed at being cut off. “The map says there’s a fork in the road, right here. At our pace, we should have passed it yesterday, but this road has been uninterrupted for miles. We must have taken a wrong turn coming out of the Wastes, or—“

“Or, the map is outdated and useless, in which case we might still be on the right track, but we have no way of knowing. So either way, it’s still useless.”

“Didn’t you ever learn any manners, Finn?” Ariane snapped.

“What good are manners in the Circle? It’s just templars watching you all day, and they’re too dumb to be worth listening to. Honestly, if you ask me, there’s really no point—”

“I know exactly where we are,” Safir said, cutting Finn off much to Ariane’s satisfaction. “Did you forget I’ve been to the Wastes before? If we’re heading to Amaranthine, we’re on the right track.”

“We’re heading to Amaranthine?” Finn asked.

“ _I’m_ heading to Amaranthine,” Safir corrected. “You two are free to go wherever and whenever you wish, but so far all you’ve done is follow me around.”

“I need to find my clan again. When I left them, we were in the Hinterlands, but it’s been long enough that they’d have left by now. They were heading north, probably to Highever,” Ariane explained, wringing her wrists. Clearly the thought of being alone forever scared her. Safir wondered what that was like.

“Well, I don’t want to go back to the Circle, if I’m being honest,” Finn admitted. “Adventuring is much more fun!”

“You call trudging through corpses and getting attacked by darkspawn _fun_?”

“Well, it certainly beats sitting around all day and reading. Why read about things when you can go discover them yourself?”

“I thought you hated being outside.”

“Well, opinions change, don’t they? Besides, the company is good.”

“Oh?”

They continued on for another minute or so before Safir lost interest in their voices, rolling her eyes and turning back around to continue down the road. Their company was never appreciated, if she was being honest, but now they were outstaying their welcome.

It didn’t help that their banter reminded her of the way she and Alistair would joke during the early stages of the Blight. Maybe one day Finn would die tragically and Ariane would finally stay quiet for more than a few minutes. The plant of her boots on muddy ground became bitter as her thoughts turned dark. Eventually, the words disappeared from her mind and only the exhaustion and pain in her feet remained.


	4. Abandonment Issue No. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like many a depressed teenager, our hero knows that the best way to deal with sorrow and grief is to resent and distance yourself from those who surround you. Here, she executes the latter.

The night hung heavily over the camp. What was left of the fire crackled every now and then, spitting embers into the black of the woods behind it. Finn’s snoring broke what silence the fire did not, but it was a quiet night. A relatively peaceful one.

Safir added more kindling and logs to the fire, watching it kick up high again. Enough for it to burn another hour or so. Enough to keep the cold at bay. Enough to keep them sleeping. Sheathing her swords and shouldering her rucksack, she stood from the fire and departed the camp as quietly as she could manage.

She hadn’t left them a note. She hadn’t left them a marked map. She hadn’t even left them her footprints. No, she was careful. Careful to make the camp seem as though she’d never been there.

With any luck, they’d forget she had been.

She wasn’t far from Amaranthine now. Only three days of walking separated her from it at her previous pace. Now that she was alone, she could make the trip in two days comfortably. Uncomfortably, she could make it in one and a half. Discomfort was familiar by now.

The road crept on for miles at a time without anything to look at but the slowly changing colors of the sky. When the monotony broke, it was only for a small wood, or a bridge. Still, it did not prove challenging to keep her mind occupied throughout. She had enough to think about without concerning herself with the details of her environment. She found her curiosity getting the better of her at times. What was Morrigan doing beyond that mirror? What was the change she spoke of? Of course, such questions were useless to ask. Whatever their answers may be, she would never acquire them, nor did she want to. But still, the questions gnawed at her. After all, something kept Morrigan from staying by her side at the Wastes. Whatever it was must have been important. Or maybe she was just being haughty. Maybe it was just a lie, an excuse to get away. It’s not as though she deserved to have Morrigan’s attention. That she stayed to chat at all was a miracle. One more unearned blessing in a sea of curses.  
Safir’s thoughts strayed at times to Vigil’s Keep. Oghren and the others were still there, still fighting darkspawn wherever they could be found, and likely still causing trouble for the arling’s nobles. She wondered at the goings on in the Keep. She hadn’t retired from the Wardens officially when she left for the Wilds. All she told them was that she was going to find someone, but she’d been gone for months now. How long would it take them to replace her, if they hadn’t already?

She thought of Nathaniel as well. He’d done an admirable job of keeping his distance after the Mother was killed. Was he still there? Was he still as wide-eyed and happy about being a Warden as he had been a year ago?

When she was especially bored, Safir even thought of Finn and Ariane, waking up to an otherwise empty camp and wondering aloud as to her whereabouts. Would concern predominate? Would relief? Would they feel sorry for her being gone? Or, worse yet, would they try to find her? Could they catch up?

All questions with impossible answers. All answers with limited use. It took some strength of will, but Safir managed to stop thinking about them for long stretches of time. She couldn’t be certain, but at times it felt as though she’d stopped thinking at all. Like she’d woken up from dreamless sleep to find herself in new surroundings.

Those strange awakenings were disconcerting, but the spaces between them were all that she had to look forward to. Hopefully, the longer she walked, the longer they’d get.


	5. Safir Becomes a Sellsword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonist, if she can even be called one anymore, needs money! Much like a Buddhist monk, she quickly realizes that attachment to the material is unproductive and decides to divest herself of her worldly possessions.

Amaranthine’s new constable took some convincing to open the gates, but she did eventually let Safir into the city. Still recovering from the darkspawn purge two years prior, life inside the walls moved at a slower pace than it once had. The city now contained fewer permanent residents and more laborers. Repairs were underway in all districts, but luckily the two most important businesses had all been tended to: blacksmiths and taverns. Getting the money together would be no trouble.

After tending to her hunger with her first meal in two days, she paid a visit to the first smith’s shop she could find.

“’Ello, miss,” grunted the fat human behind the counter. “Here to pick up an order? Look, you can tell your Lord Dellery that I need more time. Quality work demands attention.”

“I’m here to sell,” Safir answered. “And I don’t have a lord.”

“Really?” he asked, eyes focused on her ears. “Right, my mistake, then. What are you lookin’ to get rid of?”

Without speaking, Safir unsheathed the two swords at her belt and dropped them onto the counter, Starfang on the right and Moonmolar on the left. She crossed her arms, waiting for the smith’s appraisal.

“Maker’s breath! Are these enchanted?”

“Lightning on one. Frost on the other. How much will you give me for them?”

The smith ran his fingers down the flat of the blades, studying the rune etchings Sandal had made during the Blight. It was all he could do not to drool over them.

“The craftsmanship on these is superb! _And_ they’re enchanted! I’ve never seen an enchanted blade before, and now you’re offering me two? Maker, how did I earn this luck?” he gasped.

“How much?”

“Forgive me, miss, I’m just… astounded. What would you say to forty sovereigns for the lot?”

“Forty-five.”

“Hmph! Normally I’d haggle, but for these blades… forty-five sovereigns it is. Have they got names?”

“No,” she answered, hoping to keep her identity a secret. “They’re just swords.”

“Is that right? Hard to believe a masterwork like this would go without a name.” The smith, still enraptured, turned his gaze to the base of Starfang’s blade. Running his fingers over the inscription, his face warped into confusion. “Starfang? Why do I feel like I’ve heard that name before?”

“I haven’t the faintest. Can you give me my money now?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course, right away,” he said, turning towards his safe. “Now, you understand, once I give you the money, that’s it—no getting your swords back unless you buy them at my price.”

“I’ve sold swords before,” Safir sighed. “Just pay me so I can leave.”

“You know, you’re pretty rude! Still, it’s hard to be angry when you give me a blade like this one.”

Returning to the counter with a large sack in hand, he emptied its contents onto the counter and began sorting them into neat piles.

“Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five! It’s been an absolute _honor_ doing business, miss! Anything else you’d like to show me? That dagger in your belt, perhaps? It’s—“

“Not for sale,” Safir finished, pouring the sovereigns into her pack and leaving the shop.

Even at a quickened pace, Finn and Ariane likely wouldn’t reach Amaranthine for another day or so, and that’s if they were coming at all. Safir still had time to leave the city without worrying about getting caught by them. Spending five of her sovereigns on food and traps for hunting, she walked again through the city gates and began her journey south.


	6. Thedas' Most Hostile Work Environment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero has recruited the aid of a pair of humans for a rather important, if undesirable job.

Safir’s path through the Brecilian Forest was not an easy one. Such was the nature of the wood. Winding pathways and dead ends mired in brambles were common in the thick of it. Precisely the way she wanted it.  
The men she’d hired to build for her were not as thrilled. They complained constantly at having to lug the lumber through the oppressive landscape, especially with their fears of the Dalish to consider. It was funny, really. Being in a forest with cowardly men. They reminded her of her Joining. Those melancholy days in Ostagar, trudging through the bog looking for darkspawn blood, listening to Jory’s fears at every turn.  
It seemed like a lifetime ago. In the end, Jory was right to be afraid. Ostagar had not been kind to him.

Or had it?

Safir wondered whether those who did not survive their Joining were really the lucky ones. How could they not be? The Joining was vile. The treated it like a sacred rite, like some high honor, and regarded those who it killed as brave and noble souls whose sacrifice would be remembered. But they were the lucky ones. They must have been. Whenever the other Wardens applauded a recruit’s survival, they conveniently forgot that their reward was actually being a Warden.

Would she rather have died, had she known what survival would mean? She’d been prepared to kill the Archdemon herself, prepared to meet with her annihilation, but dying at the hands of a blood-soaked goblet… that was different. That was mercy. Would she have chosen it?

Such questions were useless, she reminded herself, willing her thoughts to focus on the path ahead lest she lose track of it.

“Oh, Andraste’s tits, how much longer?” one of the men complained. “We’ve been walking for hours!”

“Your village was miles away from the forest. What did you expect?” she scolded him. “This way. We’re almost there.”

“What in the Maker’s name do you even want a tree house for anyway? The Brecilian Forest’s haunted! Angry spirits, angry Dalish, angry wolves! Why would anyone want to live out _here_?” asked the other.

“It’s strange,” Safir began, “I distinctly remember telling you not to ask questions.”

Their grunts served as a sign that they were still following orders. That much was good, at least.

An hour later, they were there. A large tree in the middle of the woods. The bough large enough to support a small platform. Four walls, a shabby roof, no need for a door. It was perfect.

“Well, here we are,” she declared, earning relieved sighs from the men. “Get to work.”

“What? _Get to work_? We’ve been trudging through this damned forest for ages! Don’t we get a rest?!”

“Honestly, it’s like you don’t want to be paid. We can go back, if you want, but if you force me to find other builders, I won’t wait for you.”  
“No! That won’t be necessary!” gasped the other man, shooting his friend a look that said _shut up or we both die_. “We’ll get started right away! Won’t we, Sid?”

A groan and a roll of the eyes were what passed for an answer. In the affirmative, if he knew what was good for him. Sure enough, the men quickly found their rhythm up on the tree.

“You can stop when it gets dark. Camp here for the night, then finish the job tomorrow and leave. Got it?”

“Aye, aye, _miss_. Maker, this had better be worth the sovereigns…”

Seven sovereigns a piece for the work, plus five for the lumber. That left thirty-seven sovereigns still leftover, including the seventeen she’d made on the road between Amaranthine and the men’s village. If they did their jobs well, the discomfort would be the last thing on their minds.

Sweating, swearing, and bleeding, they continued the work. Safir’s only requirement for the tree house was that it be durable and built to last. Everything else was secondary. While this meant that the men could focus only on the bare essentials, it also meant they could afford no mistakes. They could build ugly, but they had to build well. And that took time.

They were a little more than halfway through with the construction when dusk turned to night and the fire was lit. Laying out their bedrolls, the men quickly fell asleep, exhausted. Safir volunteered to take first watch, but she had no plans to go to sleep herself. She knew humans well enough to know what they might do to an elven girl all by herself in a thick forest. So instead, she climbed a nearby tree and watched the fire, hoping her mind would spare her the painful thoughts and let her savor the peace.

Then morning came, and with it, well-rested labor. The tree house was done within two hours of their waking, and the time had come to part ways.

“You’ve done well. Time for you to go,” she said, hopping down from the tree and rifling through her pack.

“What? That’s it? You’re not gonna guide us back out of the woods?”

“Nope. Walk far enough in any direction and you’ll get out eventually. You have enough food to last a week. And this,” she finished, pulling out the burlap sack of money and handing it to one of the men.

“Maker’s balls… there’s got to be more than thirty sovereigns in here!” he gasped, looking ready to faint.

“Thirty-seven. That’s to stay quiet about where I am.”

“Stay quiet? As in…”

“You don’t know me, and you didn’t build this tree house. Anyone asks, you were out camping these last few days. If I ever see either of you here again, you won’t leave the forest alive. Understood?”  
The men shot each other fearful glances and quickly agreed to the terms. Safir watched them leave from the floor of the tree house before taking stock of its contents. Survival pack, bedroll, bow and arrows. Her mother’s dagger at her side, and enough parchment to write a novel on in the corner. She sat cross-legged in the entryway with heavy lids and sighed her exhaustion at the still forest air. In time, sleep would take her. All she needed to do now was wait.


	7. Warden vs. Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Ferelden, ladies and gentlemen. Reduced to camping out in a forest. Don't be like the Hero of Ferelden.
> 
> This definitely isn't a scene from The Hobbit, I promise.

The rock’s sharp point dug into the wall, adding yet another notch to the bare wood for a total of fourteen. She’d officially been out here for two weeks. She wondered at how much longer she would bother tallying the days as they passed, and what purpose was served by doing so, if indeed there was one. Her stomach growled as she put the rock back down, still empty from having gone to bed without food the night before. Morning was always the best time to check the traps, anyway.

The supply of food she’d brought into the forest with her allowed her to be lazy for the first week or so. The last few days of relatively constant hunger taught her the consequences of not practicing with your traps until you need them. She’d been arrogant. Having used traps during the Blight, she fancied herself a master huntress, a fantasy quickly dispelled by scarcity of options. When you go into exile, she learned, the inns and taverns that dot Ferelden don’t go into exile with you.

And yet, for all her discomfort, she was relieved to be feeling so hungry. After a certain point, the pangs in her stomach consumed the whole of her attention, which made them a worthy distraction from other pains. Pains which would never subside, but which could only hurt when looked at.

Not looking was a fine compromise.

Swinging her legs over the edge of her tree house’s foundation, she hesitated a while before descending into the forest floor to check the traps. She turned her eyes upward, staring into the dense canopy. This deep into the forest, it blotted out the sky completely. If there was blue behind the green, she couldn’t see it.

Her eyes then drifted inward from the leaves to the branches. They seemed sturdy enough at the boughs to hold her weight. Perhaps she would climb them and see what there was to see beyond the leaves. The traps could be checked at any time, couldn’t they? Indeed, they could. Seeing the sky, feeling the wind on her skin, and finally being able to look into the distance again would be worth a few minutes of delay.

She stood again on her platform and began looking around herself to choose the best tree for climbing. Judging the distance between herself and her chosen tree, she leapt from wood to wood, exchanging planks for limbs and beginning her skyward journey.

As patches of sky wandered into view, she could tell the day was sunny. The noiseless still of the upper branches did not bode well for the breeze, however. But before she could raise herself above the final layers of the canopy, a distant snarl warned her of her present company.

She prayed that she’d imagined it, that the sound she heard was all in her head, but its encore was enough prove otherwise. The wolf was back.

It wouldn’t take him long to steal the forest’s less fortunate residents away from her traps. Hunger might well be a welcome distraction, but death from starvation was not something she aspired to. Giving the sky above her one last, longing glance, she descended to check the traps.

Looking at the ground, she found no trace of the wolf’s visit. A few of her traps lay empty, but that was normal and not necessarily a sign of his thievery. Sighing, she collected her catch and brought it with her into the shed.

In all the time she’d spent here, she had yet to actually lay eyes on the wolf. It always made itself known with sound rather than sight, likely being aloof out of caution. One of these days, it might work up the nerve to attack. Maybe then she would finally kill it and be left alone.

Or maybe it would kill her, and she would finally have some peace.

She could only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it basically was just a scene from The Hobbit.


	8. Warden vs. Wild but the Camera Crew Fucked Off a Long Time Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero has spent many a year in her exile, haunted by visions both of the past and in the present. The nightmare draws to a close.

The air is cold today. Or, colder than normal. Cold is good. Numbing. Distracting. Should go out and check the traps. The game is sparse this time of year. Also good. Hunger is easy. Hunger is simple. Hunger can be dealt with. Not like…

The fire. How’s the fire? Burned itself out overnight. Good. More cold. More charcoal for drawing. Muscles sore, but that’s normal. Just need to stretch the aches away. But should I? Pain is like hunger. Easy, simple, manageable. Pain is good. Time to climb down? Yes, but don’t look at the walls. Never look at the walls. Just ahead, out the door, down the ladder, into the underbrush.

First trap empty. Second one, too. Third has a rabbit, choked to death. Good. Don’t want to eat it, but can’t stop from it. Eating takes the hunger away, so it’s hard. But necessary. Driven, driven like the game I catch, driven not to die. Fourth trap empty. Fifth has a squirrel, not worth eating. Untie it, leave it for the forest.

A sound behind me. The wolf again, or something worse? An attacker, maybe. Draw the bow, aim but don’t fire. First wait. Maybe today’s the day. Will try to stop it, but no guarantees. Hope… isn’t good. Don’t hope for it.

Everything quiet. Sound is gone, leaves are still. Maybe nothing. Back to the tree?

Shoulder the rabbit. Walk home. Will need firewood for cooking. Cold means damp, means no fire. Good in some ways but bad in others. Can’t eat without fire. Maybe I’ll wait. Waiting to eat might be good. Means more pain. Pain of body. Pain of body is good. Distracts from…

Back home. Rabbit’s on the floor. Collected some wood, but too wet for a fire. Took it up the tree for drying. Eat it tonight, maybe. Eyes tired, likely from hunger. Good. Exhaustion means sleep, sleep means no thinking, means no remembering. Sleep is good. Eyes drift. Look at walls. He stares again, from every direction, looking angry. Same with her. The walls are cruel. Eyes closed is easier. Eyes closed means sleep comes faster.

But hearing is stronger. Another sound. Must be the wolf from before.

Spring up and grab the bow, step into the doorway, look around. Listen. Hear another sound, coming from the right. Good. Draw the bow, take aim, wait. Movement. Movement is good. Movement means prey, means victory. Fire the bow. Doesn’t connect, can hear it thud in the dirt.

“Maker save me!”

That voice…

“I mean no harm! Just to speak! Please don’t shoot!”

Can only be…

“Safir, honey, are you up there?”

No. It… can’t be. It… can’t.

“Oh, my poor Little Owl, it’s me. It’s your father.”

 _No!_ Can’t be father. That’s too hard. Can’t be dealt with. Can’t be processed. Don’t want to remember. If it’s father… almost killed him… can’t be him.

But, little owl… little owl is… me?

“P… Pa?” Safir asked hesitantly.


	9. The Nightmare Ends/Sequel Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Located by her father after more than five years of exile in the forest, our brokenhearted hero finally departs her would-be hospice and heads home to Denerim. The future, if she is willing to fight for it, may finally be bright once more.

Safir sat with her arms around her knees and her back against the wall, staring down at the floorboards in between herself and her father. Cyrion was cross-legged and silent, hoping to get her to speak first. As much as she may have wanted to talk to him, his presence flooded her mind with memories she’d worked so hard to forget, and there were far too many swimming in her mind to settle on just one.

“Little Owl?” her father asked, venturing to place a comforting hand on her arm. “Little Owl, please, won’t you talk to me?”

Safir’s eyes shot up to meet her father’s. She fought already to stem the flow of tears bubbling just beneath the surface. “Pa, what are you doing here?”

“I came to find my daughter!” he insisted. “And to bring her home, if I can.”

“Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Cyrion scooted forward and wrapped his hands around Safir’s. “I hadn’t heard from you in years, Little Owl. I got worried. I thought maybe you were far away on Warden business, or failing that… Well, I didn’t want to think about that. And I’m glad I don’t have to now.”

“How are you so sure?” Safir asked, her lip quivering. “What if it’s not over? What if it’s never over?”

“Oh, honey, what do you mean?” Cyrion moved closer again. “Are you here because of the Wardens? I didn’t think this was the sort of place they would send you on assignment.”

“No, Pa, that’s not...“ Safir struggled, fighting a lump in her throat and searching for the strength to overcome it. “I came here… I came here to die.” 

Cyrion’s eyes went wide, and without hesitating he lurched forward and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Oh, my poor baby! Why? Why would you say such a thing?”

“Pa, I killed him. I _killed_ him!” Safir buried her face in his chest, clinging to the clothes on his back just like she had as a little girl. “I loved him so much, Pa, and I killed him! I killed him!”

Safir’s mind waded through a plague of distant sorrows, from Morrigan and the eluvian all the way to what would have been her wedding day. Their combined weight was too much to deal with, and for the first time since Fort Drakon, Safir let her tears fall freely, repeating the same three words over and over as her body shuddered in her father’s embrace. Together they sat in relative silence while Safir paid back years of emotional debt and wept in his arms.

“Come on,” her father said, when her crying had finally slowed enough for conversation. “Come on, Little Owl, let’s get you home, alright? You’ll never have to be alone again as long as I’m around. This is no place to live your life.”

At length, Safir finally agreed to leave with him. She watched his eyes trace over all the drawings of Morrigan and Alistair that were pinned to the walls. She must have looked insane to him as she gathered her belongings and prepared to leave the tree house for the final time. Finally ready, Safir approached the ladder and helped her father get down before making the climb herself.

“Wait a second,” she called once she reached the bottom and saw her father start leaving the clearing. “There’s something I have to get first.”

Safir approached the tree trunk on which her shelter had been built all those years ago. Kneeling down between two of its largest visible roots, she clawed at the dirt and moss until she revealed a heavy burlap sack and pulled it out of its hole. Morrigan’s gift. She had no intention of using it now, but she supposed it was better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

“Ready to go, darling?” her father asked.

“Yeah, just be careful.”

“Careful of what?”

“There’s a wolf around here, and I’m not sure it’s gone yet.”

“Oh, alright,” Cyrion said, glancing around nervously. “You still have your mother’s dagger, don’t you? You know, just in case.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it. We’ll be fine, though. He’s never actually shown himself to me.” Safir watched her father’s swaying shoulders as she followed him through the forest, wondering how he’d even made it this far in without guard or company. “Besides, if you made it past the sylvans, a little wolf isn’t too big a problem for you, right?”

“Sylvans?” he asked. “What are sylvans?”

“Er… nevermind. Let’s just go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Zinjadu and RedPandaDragon for all their help with this series, and to everyone else for putting up with my yammering on about it.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all folks! The Safir Sadness Marathon was a labor of 60% love and 40% frustrated resentment, and now it is done.
> 
> There is a direct sequel in the works called A Beast That Wants. It is a long-form fic that deals with the cure for the calling and Safir's rehabilitation from all the disgusting sadness she's been through. It is much brighter in tone and frankly much more interesting. Go read that instead.


End file.
